Titles, Inc.

PAUL NEWMAN

"Is that for sale?  How much?"  The customer is pointing to my framed 8 X 10 black and white photo standing on the corner of my desk.  "Sorry," I smile, "Paul is not for sale."  He says, "I've always wanted an autographed Paul Newman.  Everything has a price.  Name your price."

I am outraged.  "The picture says To Florence Best Wishes.  To Florence!  I will never sell it. Never! It's mine!"

He leaves me his business card, "In case you change your mind."

This photo has been with me for about 30 years.  It shows a younger Paul Newman, in a white shirt open at the collar, jacket slung over his shoulder (I've never seen anyone carry a jacket like that in real life), looking out with squinty eyes, one squintier than the other, pretty smile. Trees in the background. 

Aside from the fact that it is my dear darling Paul Newman, I like it on my desk because of the warm feelings it has always generated.  Just about everybody comments.  Young people, who know his work only from TV respond to him with the same rapture.  The photo is greeted nearly the same way by all, men and women - "Oh! Paul Newman!

They do not say, "What a great actor he is."  No, they talk about the man himself.  How generous to give all the money from his products to charity.  How exciting that he's interested in car racing.  What a good man he appears to be. And we women especially love that he hadn't upgraded his wife for a younger model every few years. 

About five years ago, a shabby man came into the store to sell me one book.  It was a "nothing" book, but the man had a sweet smile showing the few teeth he still kept.  I took the book, and gave him $5.  He saw my Paul Newman.  "I was in a movie with him," he tells me, "The Road to Perdition?  I was in it."  Of course I had seen it.  "Oh?" I say politely.  "Yeah.  I was an extra.  Remember the big party?  I was a gangster.  I was in the party."  Now I am interested.  "How did you get the job?"  He says, "I don't know.  Someone comes up to me in the street and says do you want to be in a movie, and sure I want to be in a movie.  They tell me where to go and what to do.  I got paid too!"

Me, starry eyed, "Did you see Paul Newman?"  "Sure, he was there.  I liked watching him.  He doesn't talk to anybody except what he has to do."  The man goes to my chair.  He continues, "When he's finished with what he has to do he sits down."  And he sat in the chair, folded up a bit, almost slumped, hands loosely in his lap.  "This is how he sits.  Doesn't talk to anyone.  Doesn't look up."  He continues, "And when they call him..."  and now he sits erect, stands up with energy and takes a few steps.  "See, now he's ready."

"Wow", I say to this insight. "What concentration.  What focus."  The man looks at me.  "Maybe he was just tired."

Maybe he was.  But he was electric.  He was lovely.  It was a punch in the belly when I heard he had died.  Rest in peace, dear man.

---Florence

Buying Books

This collector had bought books from me and others long ago, and now in financial straits was selling them back to me.  He had sold me the highlights earlier, and was down to the last several hundred "very nice" books. They are all first editions in dust jackets, autographed.  Unfortunately authors fall out of fashion like, well, fashion.  We recognize the names, but someone newer and hotter has come along. 

Some authors have become modern classics.  These are the names I get phone calls for every Christmas: Joseph Heller for Catch 22, Harper Lee for To Kill a Mockingbird,  Salinger for Catcher in the Rye, Hemingway for For Whom the Bell Tolls and A Farewell to Arms, Steinbeck for Grapes of Wrath - to name a few.

These books are Expensive.  Note, it is the Big Book the author wrote that is in the pricey category, not the books he/she wrote subsequently.  If you love an author you buy his entire oeuvre, but if you buy highlights of modern literature you choose the book that made his reputation.

The books I was going to buy now are by respected authors who didn't keep their toehold.  Still, it's exciting to have a signed copy of a book you enjoyed.

Art drove me in my car.  It was a longish ride and I wanted company.  I also wanted someone to help haul the estimated 17 shopping bags of books down the stairs and into the car, and out again at the store. 

It took all day.  His books were in several rooms in his apartment, on shelves, in bags, in cartons. And there were many "popular" authors I did not want at all, so I had to appraise each one.  Art went off to do his thing - we got together for lunch break, and finally at the wrap up.

After getting back to the store, and a quick catch-up of the day's activities, we went out for an evening snack.  I was exhausted.  A local supermarket has a cafe with hot food, and that was all I wanted.  Brief sustenance.

Back home we pulled into our driveway.  Art's car was in the street - anticipating that the black-top people might come to touch up as promised.  (They didn't).  As I opened the door to step out I reached down for my purse which was not there.  "Oh, No!"  I left it hanging on the back of the chair in the cafe!  Art screeched the car back out of the driveway.  Into his own car across the street.  BANG!  Pause.  He said, "We'll look at it when we get back."  (Is that control, or what!)  He tossed his cell phone to me and I tried to get the phone number to alert the cafe, but I couldn't hear, tried again, still couldn't hear. 

At the cafe, I rushed towards the chair, and at a table nearby a mother and two children waved and pointed to the purse.  I picked it up and they beamed.  The mother told me they were guarding it, they knew I'd be back.  She even sent her husband to do the shopping so they could watch my purse.  Art came in and I waved it overhead.  The woman refused the money he offered, but he insisted it was a reward for the children.  The kids smiled shyly.  I kept saying, "Gracias" over and over.

His fender was cracked through.  The first fast-talking service station manager could fix it for $1450, and that was standard or better and there was a car rental right next door.  He was so affable and persuasive, that Art retreated.  Art took it to another station that quoted $695, car rental next door, car repaired in two days.  It looks like new.

See how much adventure is involved in buying a book?

---Florence

Real Estate

When she phoned to sell me her books she enticed me with pop-ups, My Book House, Dick and Jane.

In her living room, I was enchanted by the array of tall glass candlesticks on her Steinway piano. Each was beautiful, and I paused to pick out my favorite which was enhanced by glass ruffles.  She said it was represented as a - and here she paused, searching for the name of the famed glass-maker.  I was no help, and she continued, "I should have been more careful.  As soon as I looked at it at home I knew it was a copy." "Why didn't you bring it back?" I asked.  "Because I got it at a garage sale, and it is worth the $30 I paid for it anyway. That's the only fake in the collection."  The one I liked the best.

She tried to move on to the books, but there was too much to look at.  Yes, she admitted to being a collector of many things.  There were old African baskets, shelves of them.  We walked through her house and she had shelves and shelves of Things.  She removed closet doors and lined them with shelves. Every surfaces was covered.  Groups of pottery, porcelain, fiber, wood - all impeccable.  The walls were covered with hand colored prints.

Finally I agreed to look at the books.  They were shabby miserable items.  The pop-ups were torn from mishandling, the books had the tops of spines ripped.  They were soiled, stained, crayoned.  She was hoping for some money from them.  "You can't even give them away," I said unkindly.  I was cranky.  After looking at all the treasures, my expectations were high.

She said she figured she had enough money for seven more years, but now with the financial mayhem....  I said, "Everything you have here is precious and valuable.  Send them to auction.  There's money here."  But she loved everything.  She couldn't bear to part with them.

I stood in front of an African object on the wall, very tall, somewhat narrow, bulging out through the middle.  I touched the hard weave of it, couldn't figure it out.  She told me it is a warrior's shield.  I said, "Taking a wild guess, I think this is a fantastic piece and would bring you a lot of money."

She said, "I promised that to my son."  I asked, "Will he take care of you when you run out of money in seven years?"  She laughed scornfully, "Not a chance."  I said, "So he doesn't get the shield."

She loves this house but started to explore cheaper alternatives.  Playing on the Internet she found a house in a neighboring state.  On a pond.  Gorgeous and cheap.  She put a deposit on it pending the sale of this house.  But she was taking all her treasures with her. 

We went to the computer, and she showed me "her house", and it is sensational.  It is all curves.  I can see why the price was severely reduced.  It's a piece of sculpture, an architectural jewel.  Might be a bit difficult to fit yourself into though. Not a flat wall in any room.  "Uhh," I said carefully, "I don't see how you can hang a shelf on any of these walls.  Or a picture.  She said, "I know, I haven't thought that out yet." 

"Well," I said, "It does look like a dream house." 

"No," she said, turning off the computer, "this house is my dream house.  I priced it so high that it won't be sold. I have seven years."

---Florence

Birthday Party for a Grown-Up

What makes a successful party? 

I had such a good time at my brother's birthday party. His son Fred and daughter-in-law Liz hosted the party of about 50 guests at their home.  Food?  The proverbial groaning board with variety and quantity.  Desserts?  Don't ask.  Charming genial hosts, both. 

I have to jump right to the birthday cake with its clusters of candles.  After Donald blew them out, the children excitedly blew out all the candles he seemed to have overlooked, the many candles that had been set around to decorate the dining table.   

The same young people were trusted to carry around large platters of food.  Very polite and responsible they were with pride oozing out of them.

The company was a mix of young and not-so-young.  New friends, and long time friends who comfortably bantered and joked, talking of future plans and reminiscing a bit.  (We missed you Randi and Sarah and Matteo and Eden Rose!)

I think a party's success is also reflected in the obvious happiness of the birthday-boy (!), the pleasure he took in being surrounded by these people who are so special to him.

---Florence

Delayed Flight

Who knew that a hurricane in Houston, TX would cause such havoc to my flight plans in Chicago.  I saw the map on TV the night before, all those swirling colors swinging my way, but my sympathies were with those Texans.

Even though we are a quick 20 minutes to O'Hare, now because we have to take off our shoes we have to leave about two hours earlier.  And handing your credit card for street side check in, waiting for it to be swiped, signing the receipt delays you further. Not to mention pulling out your ID at several stops along the way.  And occasionally getting stopped at the electronic gate to get wanded. 

But leaving two hours early didn't get us anywhere near the airport.  Apparently every underpass was flooded with the rains carried from Houston, and was jammed with the stalled cars that attempted to bully or swim their way through.  At 10:45 when my plane was to take off, I peered at the sky, but I wasn't even close enough to see it winging away without me. 

Oh, I got to the airport eventually (the 10:45 was canceled because nobody showed up.)  A cell phone call from my driver- husband to my daughter waiting to pick me up in NJ arranged to get me on to a later plane, while I was arguing how can she make a reservation when we had no idea when or if we would get to the airport.  We got there. 

At the appointed counter, I was advised to watch the board listing departures because the flight I was scheduled on had not been assigned a gate. Flight 646 showed an empty space.  Focused on the board was a young man stretched out on the floor, his head cradled in his knapsack, an airline pilot in uniform, and all the sundry rest of us.  Finally it flashed HLD.  I hurried to a counter, "Where is Gate HLD?" and was told, kindly, it means On Hold, no gate available.  Back I went to lean on the wall.  The others wandered, periodically checking in.

Finally a loud speaker barked out our gate, of course the furthest from where we were waiting. Trotting and panting, pulling my little case on wheels (thank goodness I didn't check it this time) I reached the gate to find two lines, one waiting to board, the other at the desk.  Looking at the card clutched in my hand, I realized it was a confirmation, not a boarding pass.  Drat.  I got at the end of the long line for the counter.  I heard magic words from the loud speaker at the counter, "Florence Shay."  I held up my hand and bellowed, "That's me! Me! Here I am! I'm coming!"and pushed through the crowd.  I got my boarding pass and triumphantly moved over to the other line.

In NJ, there were my daughters waving at me.  Oh Joy!   

And I got in just in time to help celebrate my brother Donald's birthday.

---Florence

Room For Rent?

The "depressed" young man came again.  The visit before, he had been so excited (for him excited was a teeny bit of animation) because he located a room for rent (on Craig's List) at a private home in his neighborhood, and he was desperate to get out of the room he was presently in.  He had had a phone interview, and he was on his way to see her, still an hour away because of the train schedule.

Now he told me he did not get the room.  It was rented before he got there to a quiet Chinese student.  Gee, they don't come quieter than this chap.  I told him next time  he comes across a listing of a room he wants, get over there immediately, explain that you are a Yoga Master so they will understand how quiet you can be. 

In his misery, the plastic bag he was holding slipped out of his hand, and the chicken soup container burst open and quickly dribbled from the bag onto my store carpet.  I called, "Simone!" who came running as I disappeared before I could howl.  She mopped it up, and wiped it, while I hid my distress in the back room.  The young man disappeared.

I sent him an email - he told me he picks it up at the library - and reassured him the carpet was clean again, and I only worried that his supper spilled away.  I reinforced the idea to be the first one on the scene when he sees an ad.

Can a young man into meditating in a Yoga position really sprint to beat out the next guy?  Is that a compatible concept?

---Florence

Seattle Party

At the party hosted by Loretta and Fernand, a few guests were actually native Seattle-ites.  Seattleans?  The others were from all over.  Chatting with Fernand was challenging because his English had a strange rhythm.  I asked directly, "What is that accent?  What's your nationality?"  He said, "French Canadian."  Oh, I realized, that's why they are addressing him as Frenchy.  Still, it was decidedly different from what I heard in Paris (ha, I got that in again.)

Both had spent too much time in the kitchen, slicing and chopping and stirring.  The wonderful food was served and quickly demolished.  Carolyn's contribution, an artichoke dip also deserves attention. 

Loretta teaches dancing.  Frenchy, although in the construction business, is sometimes at hand as an extra partner.  The music was throbbing - and Loretta was dancing.  She doesn't walk.  She bops, she wriggles, she swings.  She's got the body to shake. 

The invitation promised Tango lessons, and I stepped up to the plate.  At one point Frenchy dipped me.  I thought I was in an elegant bowed back-bend, but the photo looks as though he caught me before I went splat on the floor.  But, ah, in my head, I was Ginger Rogers. 

We were talking closet space (typical lady talk), and Loretta said, "Let me show you something."  In her bedroom she opened a door to a humongous, well-appointed closet.  She said proudly, "Frenchy made it for me."    I stare into it, stunned.  "What?  What?" I am speechless.  She said, "It's the garage."  The garage! "Where are the cars?" I whisper.  She answers airily, "Oh, in the driveway."

OK, ladies, does anyone have a husband who would sacrifice his garage for you?

---Florence

A Picnic at Carkeek Park

Who would put that name on a beautiful park with a narrow beach up against Puget Sound?  The Carkeek family who bought it for Seattle, that's who.

Laura and her family planned a birthday picnic for Steve, so we did the Seattle thing: tighten your seat belts, hang on, we are driving down a circuitously narrow road, down the heavily  treed mountain, until we reach this broad expanse of green.

Carrying the picnic accessories, we approach the long rows of picnic tables. The row of tables on the rise on the lawn have pink paper signs on each saying Reserved.  On the flat level we find a bare table, plunk our stuff on it, and start setting up.  Laura's mom and family will be bringing lots more food.

  A young man approaches from the adjacent table and says pleasantly, "I'm sorry, this table is reserved." A quick look around shows me that all the other tables are occupied or have the pink sheets on them.  I stand firm.  "No it isn't.  There was not Reserved paper on it."  He says, "I got here a bit late to put the paper on it."  "Too bad," says I, "You are late, you lose the table."  "It's really mine," he persists. I say, "Sorry, now it's mine."  He says, "I reserved it at City Hall.  I have their certificate."  I look at him in his Tee and shorts, and make an educated guess, "OK, show me the paper."  Now he's getting a bit agitated.  "I don't have it with me."  I shrug, expressively, I thought.  When he was almost reduced to tears, I looked again and see an empty table down the row. 

I sauntered over, sat down facing out, leaning back on my elbows, looking territorial.  Waiting to be challenged.  Nobody approached, so I waved to our team who gathered everything up, and joined me.

"Did he say Thank You?" I asked. "Yes, he was so grateful." 

I just read about an argument at Ravinia Park where they hold summer concerts, orchestras playing classical music.  A couple left their lawn blanket to bring back their picnic goods only to find it discarded, and another couple on their own blanket, same spot.  The altercation that followed sent two to the hospital.  But that's Chicago.

The rest of the family found us, and a good thing too.  Marcia brought the best tasting chicken ever.  I asked how she made it, and when she told me she soaked it overnight and started to list the ingredients, I stopped listening.  That's really cooking!  Delicious doesn't come easy!

Steve grabbed pictures of some children having a sack race, tumbling down before they got very far.  While we stood on the bridge spanning the tracks between the park and the beach, he took a picture of a man walking along the track below, hauling his blue kayak to the water.

Steve is a writer/photographer for the local paper - those two photos appeared in the next edition.  That's how it is with good newspeople - even on their birthday they stay alert for a "happening."

---Florence

Seattle Holiday

By the way, when my son chose the Edgewater Hotel for me in Seattle, he asked whether I wanted a view of the water (much more expensive) or a city view.  Ever frugal I opted for the city view.  Boy, did I luck out!  From my bed at night, looking at the window, there framed between the open drapes, was the brilliantly lit top of the Space Needle with its tiny red light winking at me.  The next night at dusk, the Space Needle had a background of horizontal pink clouds.  Gorgeous.  Ask for Room 449. Warning: it does not have a full length mirror.

When Laura came to pick me up she said she had attended a convention meeting in the ballroom on this floor.  We went to look at it.  Very grand with the expanse of windows facing the water.  Walking to the elevator, we paused at the open door of a room the housekeeper was cleaning.  Room?  Hardly.  We walked in to a foyer, a huge dining room, living room opening to an outdoor balcony overlooking The Water (Elliott Bay.)  Huge bedroom.  Bathroom with enormous tub, and behind glass a huge shower with two shower heads for the lucky couple.  The housekeeper told us this was the Penthouse Suite (yes, 4 is the top floor.) 

Folks, forget Room 449.  Go for the Penthouse.  It even has a full length mirror.   

Down in the lobby I went to the desk, "What is the rate for the Penthouse Suite?"  She smiled, "$1500 and $2500."  I turned this over in my mind.  Per month? per week? surely not per night?  Cagily, I asked, "I don't understand the two rates?"  She answered helpfully, "It's seasonal, and also whether we are fully booked.  Today it is $2500."  So it was for the day.  I'm back to Room 449.

That night we joined another couple at a "fish restaurant."  I was encouraged to order a Key Lime vodka martini, the rim of the glass dipped in pie crust.  DeeLicious.  I reluctantly passed it around for trial sips.

The menu descriptions were elaborately enticing although they needed interpretation by my new friend, who explained each with such precision that it became even harder to choose.  With a little persuasion I selected Alder Plank Salmon.  No mistake there.  Good food and drink, witty conversation, laughs all around.  I was loving Seattle.

Did I mention that our table was against the window for a water view?

---Florence